Signed in Blood.

When our friend visited from WA, recently, she thought there'd be no feeling more welcoming than getting jabbed by needles in front of a crowd. Ever supporters of public torture (oh, to have lived in the time of hangings!) we trotted our dainty, untarnished arses off to the Tattoo Expo to lend our support.
Having just painted my nails before we left, I needed Ben's help pulling up my pants (decided it was a 'pants up' occasion). I was also scolded for eating my badly timed, ginormous ice cream like an unco 5 year old as we raced through the expo foyer, and reminded that I'd be in big trouble if I came home tattooed (missy!). My infantalisation now complete, I felt a little out of place in a room where facial peircings and zombie make-up were the norm. I saw one chick with pierced cheeks. Cheeks, people! Right where you'd find two rosy spots, in a perfect (cartoon) world.

We also learned, Duwey kindly demonstrating as reciprocant, that it is customary among tattooed folk to physically place someone where you would like them to be instead of saying 'excuse me'! - We placed ourselves further from the doorway after that, venturing into the darkness... As usual, Ben and I had entered a sea of black clothing in our wanky, typical married-couple matching white tees and light denim shorts. Painting my nails proved a smart use of time, though, (when is it ever not?) my choice of gaudy-yellow blending nicely with the bright overtones of the very popular pin-up girl look of the day. If we were sniffed out as plain-skinned spies, I could hold my nails up like 10 little badges and exclaim, "See? I'm one of you! Spare us! (Take Duwey - He said he wants the works!)"

Ever driven by the belief that the world revolves around me, however, I remained conscious of our reverse-freakism, and began fancying that the tattoed folk classed us non-tatters as 'cleanskins.' Good Catholic girl that I am, I knew better than to view this virginal skin as a source of shame. Rather, it was a coveted commodity deserving only of the highest bidder. We strutted about with our wares(bending over to flash uninked butt cracks.. Pulling shirts over heads to scratch spotless bellies), each artist looking upon us as the blank canvas fit for their next masterpiece, hoping that their needle will be the one. Or, they could play it cool like Amber's artist who, when she tried to introduce us, told her he was too busy and to bring us back later. Okay!

Put back in our place of insignificance thusly and moving on, there were some interesting sights to see. One big baldy was having the back of his head worked on and I watched with smug amusement as he tried to hide his pain, revealed only in the subtle tensing of his feet and shoulders. Now, I've never been tattoed, but I'm pretty sure I could take 50 needles to the head without even flinching (whilst swallowing glass AND breathing fire). So, obviously I'm better than that guy.

Another point of interest was the quarantine style glass box wherein Dr Rev had been 'blood painting.' This guy really 'pours himself into his work' (haw, haw), using his own blood to create portraits that are actually quite impressive beyond the gimmick. The use of the blood from the background inward adds a gripping intensity to the artwork, seeming to encapsulate each subject in a world of pain. Dr Rev had been working directly from the vein that day, and had slipped out for a rest when we passed his stall. The effect of that empty box was like evidence of some unethical experiment, straight from Rise of the Planet of the Apes; it was fitting then that the fresh piece on display was that of an ape, with a pained look in his eyes.

Or, if fine art ain't your thang, perhaps a skate deck imprinted with some lovely naked ladies, puckering vaginas and all. (I'm pretty vaginas don't do that, although I guess that'd make it easier...). On the way out, we also passed a cock-rock themed t-shirt stall which sold hats with flaps to complete the look. As I wondered why these particular hat flaps were ridiculously long, the stall guy popped his head out to reveal a long, lustruous mullet closely resembling the product itself. Question answered!


The remainder of the day was spent in getting back to our good, Christian, cleanskin roots. We skipped on over to DFO to find a couch for our new, fancy pants townhouse (all the while holding hands, singing Taylor Swift, riding white horses and eating cupcakes).


Please note: Many animals were harmed in the making of this blog, but only because it helps me concentrate. I do however, apologize if I have hurt, broken or spilled red wine on the feelings of friends. Amber's tats are quite rockin (and change with her environment like camouflage, which is cool). Well worth the public torture. Her artist was also very friendly when we finally had the honour. Ben may not be as bossy as I make out. There are some nights when he doesn't even beat me! I call them Treat Nights. And, for the record, I never claimed that 'tattoed folk' are the race responsible for 9/11 (although, it is a known fact).

Last Friday Night.

Last Friday night, I went out for dinner with friends, proving in the process that when you ride with me, baby, even an ordinary event can become extraordinary. “I’ll show you…” [Opens the gate to Jurassic Park.]

We’d arranged to meet at the Glen, as had several thousand other people (well, they were meeting THEIR mates. Jo’s really not that popular). We gave the parking lot a once-over and decided that since we hadn’t succeeded in finding a park right away, we should quit (an attitude I recommend for all fields of life), settling instead for a space down a dark alley in front of an abandoned construction site. Prime, brutha.
The hike back to the Glen was long and arduous. We climbed many mountains and crossed many freeways, the latter made easier by pushing the homeless out into the traffic. Needless to say (as I am not one to complain or exaggerate), by the time we reached our destination we’d worked up quite an appetite and could probably give a few starving nations a lesson in hunger. Our minds and endurance weakened thus, and knowing only that we wanted “some kind of.. Asian”, we naturally piled into the first suitable-looking joint that would admit us.

It was clear from the beginning that we’d found an anomaly among restaurants, the menu providing the first sign of danger. I am personally a fan of a simple menu, being that less choices help prompt a decision (a handy tactic for the hungry). Sure, sometimes you’ll have 3 or 4 pages, making life a little harder but still manageable. This restaurant, I kid you not, thought variety the spice of life, and spread our options out over about, ooh.. forty pages! If the amount of food wasn’t confusing enough, the restaurant was also having an identity crisis and allowed us to choose from every kind of food in the wooorld. The menu was divided into different cultures, including “Western” for the miscellaneous (heaven forbid they miss anything). You could have nachos, pasta, a steak sandwich, lobster (you know, if you were suddenly feeling a bit fancy at this Frankenstein establishment), eel, crocodile… As well as the mishmash of cuisine, there were so many damn animals to choose from that we fancied the restaurant was keeping a mini-zoo out back!

When we ask the waitress to explain “chiffon” sauce, simply for the assurance that it wasn’t shredded material (hell, they had everything else) we were surprised when she gave an answer. Although, I imagine the only prerequisite for that job was to sit a 50 page quiz on the menu alone, and damn your service skills. Unconvinced all the same that the cook could do a decent job of every meal, I went for what I assumed would be a “safe”, healthy option and ordered chicken teriyaki (or, item 2028, as Jo pointed out!). We had also ordered entrees, so when a plate of fatty chicken steak arrived, devoid of vegies and splattered with bottled sauce, I hoped it was one of those and not my meal. ‘Twas in vain. Not that we fared much better with the entrees. We had forgone an order of rice paper rolls for a “similar” dish that the waitress recommended. Apparently, rice paper rolls and deep fried.. something can be easily confused. How did you pass your menu quiz, woman?!

Ben and Jo did ok with their meals (smug little bastards), but Duwey ordered a terrible pasta dish and was aiming to drown out the flavour when he requested some chilli. With a look of disgust, the passing waiter raised his hand as an insistence for patience, and disappeared without a word. When he returned (which was also to our anstonishment!), he slammed down the chilli and again stormed off in silence. So sorry to trouble you, sir! I guess he was wise to your game, Duwey.

Although the meal was a disaster, we miscellaneous Westerners (plus one) couldn’t help but laugh. The clincher was when Ben finished his cup of tea and found a short, curly hair at the bottom. I’m glad he could look at the bright side of that one! We weren’t having so much fun, however, that we were willing to take our chances with dessert (of which the choices were also plentiful, of course) and moved on to a regular café. My effort to be “healthy” was thrown to the wind in my state of delirium and, intending only to order a coffee, I found myself sitting before a fat slice of lemon tart and a moccacino. It appeared magically, so the calories don’t count.

The laughs did continue at the next venue, but you should never tickle my funny bone in public - The night ended on me humping the air in imitation of my friends having sex, as you do. I blame the magic sugar.

(Oh, and we also did all that stuff in the Katy Perry song. I wouldn't want to mislead you.)